Tempted and Taken, page 25
Mom nodded.
“Sorry tonight didn’t work out.”
Mom looked at him for a long time. Too long. Matt waited for her pain to morph into something scarier, darker. He was no stranger to her depression, to those times when she seemed to go blank. It always felt like she was going away somewhere in her head, but tonight, none of that was there.
In truth, she almost looked at peace. It should have set his mind at ease, but instead…it terrified him.
“Mom…”
“You know who you are, Matt,” she whispered.
Her words took Matt back to the day he’d given her the sketchbook and said he didn’t want to draw with her anymore.
“I’m a…” He didn’t finish, couldn’t.
She gave him a sad smile, then cupped his cheek. “Look deeper.”
Before he could offer any reply, she closed the car door and walked inside.
Matt drove home, inundated with too many conflicting thoughts and feelings. Dad had sworn Mom knew about his cheating and turned a blind eye because, as his father like to say, women were simple creatures. Buy them a piece of jewelry and they forget everything.
But…now…
She hadn’t known about the infidelity, and it had hurt her. Badly. Just as Matt’s knowledge about it had.
When he got home, he went to his office, determined to turn off the heavy thoughts and get some work done, but he couldn’t ignore the little voice in the back of his head that said something was very, very wrong.
So, after an hour, he climbed back into his car and drove back to his parents’ house. His dad was in his office, smoking a cigar and drinking bourbon. He looked up in surprise when Matt walked in.
“Late for a visit,” Dad said.
“Have you been home long?” he asked.
Dad shook his head. “Just got back a few minutes ago.” Then, Dad had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows. “Had a date with Genevieve. That woman has talented fingers.”
“Where’s Mom?”
Dad scowled. “I’m assuming bed.”
“She saw you tonight.”
“What?” Dad asked.
“At the restaurant. I’d made reservations for the two of us to dine there.”
“Why the fuck would you take her there?” Dad barked, as if Matt should know his cheating schedule.
Matt wasn’t going to stand there and take another of his father’s many dressing-downs. His gut was telling him something was wrong, so he left Dad’s office, heading to the stairs. He heard Dad calling his name, pissed at being ignored, but Matt disregarded him, climbing the steps to Mom’s room.
“Mom,” he said softly, knocking on the door.
There was no answer, so Matt opened it, praying she was asleep.
The moon cast enough light from the window that he could see the bed was empty.
Glancing over toward the bathroom, he saw light peeking from beneath the closed door. He forced himself across the room even though…
He knocked, but all he could hear was the constant drip-drip-drip of water.
He cracked the door a little, not looking in. “Mom?”
She didn’t reply, so he pushed it open completely.
Dark red blood congealed on the snowy-white tiles.
Matt’s eyes locked onto the puddle, refusing to move, to see anything else. He didn’t want to look into the bathtub. He didn’t need to because he could see enough to know…
The blue-tinged skin of a lifeless arm hung over the edge of the tub.
Her arm.
“Mom,” he whispered. While inside he was screaming, No! No! No!
He didn’t hear Dad walk in, but he smelled the cigar smoke as his father stepped into the room, roaring with rage. “What the fuck? How could she do this to me?!”
To him?
Matt turned to his father, fury erupting like lava from a volcano. He led with his right, punching his father square in the face, then shoving him back against the wall hard.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dad barked.
Dad didn’t get it. He’d never get it. And the rose-colored glasses Matt had donned in regards to his old man shattered instantly, opening his eyes to all the things he should have seen.
The selfishness, the lack of compassion, the arrogance, the evil.
You know who you are, Matt. Look deeper.
His mother’s last words to him.
Matt hadn’t bothered to look the first time she’d said that to him all those years earlier. He’d been so busy emulating an asshole, turning himself into one in the process, just so he could earn his father’s favor.
Now…now he didn’t have a fucking clue who he was.
Unable to deal with his grief, Matt latched onto anger. It was the only emotion he could control, so he wrapped it around himself like a blanket, letting it warm him from the inside out.
Anger at his father—and at himself—allowed him to do what came next.
Call his brothers and tell them Mom was dead.
Once that was done, the fury kept him moving through the next few days—the funeral, the burial—then it just kept burning over the weeks…months…years.
Until he got a midnight call from his father’s latest mistress, telling him Dad had died of a heart attack.
And that was when the anger faded, replaced by regret and sorrow and guilt so thick, he could hardly breathe.
“I left her alone,” Matt said brokenly, as he reached the end of his story. “I should never have left her alone.” He bowed his head because he didn’t have the strength to face his brothers’ wrath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his gaze averted. “I’m so sorry.”
Neither Gage nor Conor spoke, the silence in the room drifting for several long minutes as Matt stared resolutely at his lap, drowning in a sea of anguish, the deafening beat of his heart thudding in his ears.
For all he knew, his brothers had stood up and walked out. He wouldn’t blame them. Matt had left their mother alone at her most vulnerable moment. She had a long history of depression, something she’d been taking medication for. It wasn’t until last year, during Gage’s intervention, that Matt learned from Conor that Mom had stopped taking the meds, which made his actions even worse. She’d had no life preserver that night. None at all.
“Matt.”
He jerked when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t heard Gage move.
“Matt, look at us.”
Matt shook his head. Shame suffusing him. “I’m sorry,” he said again, though those words would never be enough, never erase what he’d done.
Gage’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Look at us.”
Matt lifted his head. Conor was still sitting across from him, his brother’s pale, grief-stricken face the first thing he focused on.
None of the anger he’d expected to see was there. Instead, Conor’s face was lined with the same pain Matt was drowning in.
“You’ve held that in for a long time,” Conor said quietly.
Now that it was out, Matt felt drained, empty. He was out of words, out of emotions, out of everything, so he just nodded.
“You should have told us all of that when it happened,” Gage said.
Matt looked up at him. “I didn’t know how. I left her alone. I… It was my fault.”
Gage sighed. “No, Matt. It wasn’t. You spent years under Dad’s thumb, listening to all those bullshit lessons of his. You were just a kid when he started indoctrinating you. It’s easy to look back now and see just how big a narcissist he truly was, but at the time, when we were there, all we saw was our dad. The man who took us on family vacations, sat down to dinner with us every night, who gave us money when we got good grades in school, who went to our football games and school plays—occasionally,” Gage filled in, because Dad was out of town for work as much as he was in. “Sure, he was a cold, arrogant, selfish bastard, but he was still there, still our dad, and besides, we didn’t know anything different. Looking back at it now, we see it through the eyes of our family’s history, our experiences. Maybe you think all this shit should have been obvious, but Matt…nothing was obvious back then.”
“What’s that saying?” Conor asked. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty. We grew up in a tough house. Dad’s coldness, his high expectations, Mom’s depression. We were forced to find ways to adapt, to hold on. You threw yourself into your art, and then when Dad dragged you away from that, you used work as a way to deal. Gage escaped through video games, me into books. It’s a wonder we’re not all locked up in padded rooms right now,” he added with a thin smile.
“Why aren’t you angry at me?” Matt asked. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“We heard you,” Conor said in that gentle tone of his. Matt could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his steady-as-a-rock brother break, and he’d still have fingers left over. “We also heard you say you went back. Mom’s death wasn’t your fault.”
“It was,” Matt insisted.
Conor shook his head. “She made that choice, and even if you’d walked into the house with her that night, I think…” His brother swallowed deeply, his voice thick. “She’d made her decision. If not that night, another.”
Gage knelt next to Matt’s chair. “You told me once that the only person standing in my way with Penny was me. You were right. So I’m going to offer you some similar advice. We don’t blame you, so there’s nothing we can offer to make this right for you. There’s only one person’s forgiveness you need right now, and that’s your own. Find a way to forgive yourself, Matt, and the rest will take care of itself.”
“I…” Matt started.
Can’t.
Gage stood, then reached down. Matt took his brother’s hand, allowing Gage to pull him up from the chair.
Matt froze, shocked when Gage wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell us. Sorry we let this stupid distance between us go on for so long. We should never have forgotten that first and foremost, we’re family. We’re brothers.”
Matt lifted his arms, returning the embrace, so stunned by their understanding he didn’t know what else to say or do.
He’d expected contempt. He’d received compassion.
“I love you,” Gage said.
Matt wanted to say the words. Wanted to give them back to his brothers.
But now, just like when Liza had said them, he couldn’t get the words out. He’d lived a lifetime without love, pretending it was a silly, useless emotion.
He’d been lying to himself because the truth was, love had always felt like something he didn’t deserve.
When they separated, Gage gripped his neck, pressed their foreheads together. Just for a second. Then he walked back around the desk as Conor rose.
“You going to be okay?” Conor asked.
Matt felt as if his insides had been ripped out and tossed through the shredder. Regardless, he nodded. “Yeah.”
Because, while the pain was still there, it was mingled now with the tiniest bit of hope. He’d told his brothers the truth and they hadn’t walked away.
Matt had let his fear of losing them rule him for far too long.
“Eventually,” he added. “I just need to figure some things out.”
“Is Liza one of those things?” Gage asked.
“I hurt her.”
“She’s tough,” Gage said. “Don’t write off what the two of you shared. If you reach out to her, she’ll help you through this.”
Matt had fought like the devil to keep this away from her, certain her disgust over his callous actions would drive her away. The second she tore up that marker and walked out of his office, he crumbled, because without her…
Conor gave him an encouraging smile. “Call us if you need us. We can hold as many interventions as it takes. And you know, therapy isn’t a bad thing. Pretty sure our health plan covers it,” he added with a wink.
Matt chuckled. “Yeah. I probably need a few…thousand sessions. Thank you.”
His brothers left as Matt sat back down, swiveling his chair toward the windows, staring outside without seeing anything.
Gage told him he needed to forgive himself. Matt wasn’t sure how the hell to do that, but he needed to find a way.
For himself.
For Liza.
Chapter Twenty
An hour later, Matt let himself into his penthouse. He’d had Henri cancel the rest of his meetings for the day and called for his driver to take him home. He hadn’t been in the right state of mind to get behind the steering wheel of a car.
He considered climbing the stairs to his room, burrowing himself under his thick duvet, and sleeping for the next twenty years or so.
Instead, he turned toward his office. He knew what was pulling him there, though he wasn’t sure if he could follow through with what came next.
Sitting at his desk, he took a deep, calming breath, then reached down to open the bottom drawer. He never opened this drawer because it only contained one thing. One thing he’d attempted to keep hidden away along with his guilt, his regret, his grief.
Matt pulled out the birthday package, the wrapping still as pristine as the night Mom had given it to him. He’d found the forgotten gift on his desk after Mom’s funeral. He hadn’t been able to open it then, his fury burning too hot, so he’d shoved it in the drawer and put it out of his mind for fourteen years.
He carefully unwrapped the paper, then lifted the lid on the box, gasping when he discovered the sketchbook he and his mother had shared.
Matt’s hands shook as he pulled it from the box. When he hadn’t found it as they’d packed up his mother’s belongings following her death, Matt had assumed she’d destroyed it. That idea, combined with the night she’d died, convinced him that he’d broken Mom’s heart irrevocably, that he’d lost her due to his callousness.
Matt ran his finger over the cover, the sketchbook tatty from so many years of being passed back and forth between them. There were smudges of ink and pencil and deep creases that spoke of frequent use. In calligraphy, his mother had written, “The Artwork of Bianca and Matt Russo.”
Opening the book, Matt spent hours slowly leafing through the pages, studying the drawings, recalling what had inspired each of them, what had been happening in his life at the time. He’d been eight years old when his mother gave him the sketchbook with the first incomplete drawing—a funny picture of a dog on water-skis that Matt had finished by adding a crazy-looking cat driving the boat. His mom had titled it “Rex and Boots, Unlikely Summer Buddies.”
He laughed, admiring his mother’s talent, and his definite lack of skill in that first sketch.
He watched his skill improve with each drawing, as he and Mom tackled everything from silly caricatures to nature to still life to portraits. Every single sketch evoked a memory, some happy, some sad, all of them forgotten until right now, as his past came back in a display of pencil, ink, watercolors, charcoal, and even pastels. Mom was clearly a huge fan of color and shading, while Matt’s additions were always heavy on delicate strokes of the pencil, with an eye for fine detail.
Once a drawing was complete, Mom would choose the title, adding it to the page, then they’d both signed it with a flourish, as if they believed their silly sketches would someday be displayed in a museum or sold to art collectors for millions of dollars.
When Matt flipped to the last page, he stilled, staring at a drawing he’d never seen before. His mother had started one last “incomplete” sketch.
It was of him. An unfinished portrait.
Matt stared at the younger version of himself, studying that twenty-something man and trying to assimilate that face with the one that greeted him in the mirror nowadays. She’d drawn him with a smile on his face, sitting at a desk, concentrating on something on the surface. At first glance, he assumed he was working, but when he peered closer, he realized he was drawing in this very sketchbook. The page was blank.
Mom was the most talented artist he’d ever known, but this drawing…it was next level. There were so many layers, Matt could hardly take it all in, from the details in his eyes, his lips, the curve of his jaw, to the bright rays of sun streaking along the floor. The handsome man in the drawing sat up straight and tall, he looked confident, strong, ready to take on the world. What he didn’t look like was Dad—no frown, no harsh lines, no furrowed eyebrows, no anger in his eyes.
The Matt she’d drawn looked peaceful, happy.
Then his eyes landed on the bottom of the page, on the title of the piece.
“Look Deeper.”
Matt’s vision clouded with unshed tears as he saw his mother as she’d been that last night. She’d said the same thing to him, even as she’d sat there, ready to end her own life.
Were those words a reference to this drawing? Her way of telling him she loved him?
How could she have seen those positive things in him when he couldn’t even see them in himself?
Matt wasn’t sure how long he sat there, bombarded by memories and feelings he’d buried years ago. When it all became too much, he reached into the top desk drawer for the new art pencils he’d ordered when he was in Hawaii. He hadn’t touched them because, at first, he’d been too wrapped up in Liza, and for the last week and a half, too wrapped up in himself.
Bending toward Mom’s unfinished portrait, he did what he always did.
He finished it.
He decided to fill in that blank page in the drawing of the sketchbook. Mom—aware of his ability to create a lot of detail in a small space—had scaled it so that he would have plenty of room to add his part.
Working from memory, he drew a much smaller portrait of his mom. He only had enough room for her face, but that was all he needed. He didn’t want anything extra to pull his focus away from her. He sketched her as he wanted to remember her, smiling widely, looking at him with love and affection. Just as she had that day in Pompenis, as she’d traipsed around behind three unruly, silly boys, laughing at their antics.
Once the drawing was done, he leaned back to study it…and the calm he sensed in that younger version of himself washed through him. And for the first time since Mom had uttered those words, he looked deeper, trying to discover who he was, who he wanted to be.
